


Golden Ratio

by umbralillium



Series: Tumblr Fic [10]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Professors, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-09
Updated: 2013-10-09
Packaged: 2017-12-28 22:31:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,209
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/997684
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/umbralillium/pseuds/umbralillium
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Derek gets distracted by a professor holding class on the lawn. Then an art bomb drops on him and Things Happen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Golden Ratio

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by [captain-snark](http://captain-snark.tumblr.com/post/63391226065/captain-snark-i-need-fic-where-stiles-is-a) on Tumblr.

Derek didn’t even _like_ math, when he was in school. It didn’t make sense unless you really studied it. Art wasn’t like that. Yes, it took skill and study to be good, but you didn’t have to know anything about it to really appreciate it. Math just never seemed elegant, before. Until one day when Derek was walking across the quad at UC Beacon Valley and noticed a bunch of students sitting on the grass, a chalkboard, of all things, in front of them, and a man pacing next to it, talking and gesturing and pointing and laughing.

He edged closer, standing with other people that had been drawn in by the odd sight. The chalkboard was filled with writing, with math, numbers and symbols and words sprawled across its surface. What really caught Derek’s attention, though, was the man. He was dressed almost like a student: a beanie over his hair with bangs curling over the edge, black-rimmed glasses sliding down his nose, a graphic tee under a gray cardigan, maroon jeans, Adidas on his feet. Jesus Christ, the guy was a _hipster_. A faint smile tugged at Derek’s mouth.

"Stiles," a woman said flatly, standing on the sidewalk nearby, her green eyes narrowed in displeasure.

"Lydia!" the professor, Stiles, greeted, grinning. "What can I do for you, o mighty math goddess?"

"Do I _want_ to know why you’ve brought a blackboard and your entire class out here?” she asked, arms crossing over her chest, tossing her red hair haughtily.

Stiles gestured at the bright blue sky. “It’s a beautiful day! Who wants to be stuck inside on a day like this?”

The students on the grass murmured their agreement, glancing between their professor and Lydia. Stiles just grinned.

Lydia rolled her eyes and waved a dismissive hand. “Just don’t make a habit of it!” she replied, turning and striding away, her heels clicking sharply against the concrete.

"Yes, my lady!" Stiles called after her. "Back to the Uncertainty Principle…" he launched back into his lecture, erasing part of the board with the sleeve of his cardigan.

Derek’s fingers twitched against his biceps where his arms were crossed over his chest, his eyes locked on Stiles’s deft fingers as he wrote on the bared board, occasionally underlining what he was referencing with his index finger. For a moment, Derek wondered if there’d still be traces of chalk on his fingers later, if the taste would linger. He shook his head and turned away, continuing on his way towards his car. He didn’t have time to watch a crazy professor on the lawn. He needed to get groceries, paint, and gas. Wait. Paint?

As he walked away, he thought he felt eyes watching him, but when he glanced back, no one was looking his way.

*

Derek spent the rest of the weekend in a daze of inspiration. There was something about those numbers, those eyes, those fingers, that _mouth_ , that sent his mind into overdrive. By the time Alex, Cora, and Laura showed up for their weekly siblings-only brunch on Sunday, he was swaying with exhaustion, eyes red-rimmed; his hair, skin, and clothes streaked with paint; eight new paintings of various sizes scattered through his studio.

He hadn’t even heard them knocking, didn’t know they were there until a hand touched his shoulder and he nearly fell off his stool, attention torn away from the last painting still on his easel, paintbrush resting loosely in his hand, and a fresh streak of honey-brown paint on the knee of his battered jeans.

“Are you okay, Derek?” Alex asked quietly, taking the paintbrush from his hand and dropping it into the jar of water on the table next to the easel.

“Fine,” Derek replied, standing up and staggering a little. Laura and Alex steadied him quickly, concern in their familiar eyes.

“How long?” Laura asked with a sigh, guiding him over to the sofa. Derek eyed her, wondering how hard she’d hit him if he told her the truth. She shook her head fondly at his pause. “Never mind. Cora, see what’s in the fridge, we’re eating in this time around. Alex, go get some clean clothes for him.”

“On it,” Alex replied, disappearing towards Derek’s bedroom.

“Uh-huh,” Cora answered distractedly.

“Cora!”

“What?”

“Fridge!”

“Hmm? Oh, right.” Cora turned away from the painting she’d been looking at and headed back into the main part of Derek’s apartment.

Derek sighed and let his head fall back against the couch, eyes closing against the morning light flooding through the windows. His head felt like it was full of wool, his temples throbbed, and his shoulder ached. A soft squeeze to his shoulder and Laura’s weight lifted from the couch beside him. He listened to her move around his studio, her tread light, but still audible.

“These are really amazing, Der,” Alex said softly, making Derek jump and open his eyes to find his twin standing next to the couch, Derek’s favorite sweatpants and a tank top in his hands, but his eyes were tracking around the room, skipping from painting to painting.

“You gonna show them?” Laura asked, leaning closer to one of a long-fingered hand holding chalk over equations on a chalkboard, the edges fading away into a sky blue background.

“I don’t know yet,” Derek answered with a sigh as he stood and skimmed out of his paint spattered clothes and into the clean ones Alex had brought him. “Maybe.”

“Who is it?” Cora questioned from the door way. “You’ve got bupkis, by the way, big bro.”

Derek frowned, shaking his head. “I went grocery…” he trailed off, thinking back. He _had_ planned to go grocery shopping, but his head had been full of paintings and he’d gone to the art store on 4 th on autopilot then straight to his apartment. He sighed and ran a hand through his hair, grimacing at the oil and paint. He didn’t have to look to know all three of his siblings would be looking at him fondly with a touch of exasperation at how much of a mess he was.

“Didn’t answer my question,” Cora pointed out in a singsong voice as she wandered over to the easel.

“Just some guy from work,” Derek replied, striding from the studio towards the kitchen and the pile of takeout menus, idly wondering if the Chinese place a couple blocks over was open, yet.

“Uh-huh,” Alex murmured skeptically, right on Derek’s heels. “Just some guy that sent you on a weekend-long painting binge like you haven’t since—“ he broke off, biting his lip, brown eyes apologetic.

Derek braced his hands on the counter, waiting for the twinge of pain that always came when someone mentioned her, but nothing came. He frowned then shook his head. “I’m fine,” he insisted. He grabbed the coffee pot and stuck it under the tap, trying to hold it steady for the water.

He could almost hear Alex roll his eyes as he took the coffee pot and brushed Derek aside. “Sit down before you fall down, baby bro.”

“Five minutes,” Derek grumbled, subsiding onto a stool at the counter, rolling his own eyes when Alex mouthed the words along with him.

“And I will lord them over you until the day we die,” Alex gibed back, pouring the water into the reservoir of the coffeemaker, the familiar bickering helping to settle Derek more than any coffee or food. “And even then, I’ll haunt you, if I go first.”

Derek snorted. “Never, Alex,” he said. “Same day, always.”

Alex shot Derek a smile over his shoulder even as he dumped an extra scoop of grounds into the filter. “Don’t tell Laura,” he mouthed.

“I saw that,” Laura said fondly, sliding onto the stool next to Derek’s.

“Of course you did,” Cora replied as she draped herself over Derek’s back, grinning sharply at his grunt. “You’re worse than Mom.”

Laura straightened, a disgruntled look on her face. “You take that back!”

“Never!” Cora declared.

Laura growled and dove off her stool. Cora squeaked and took off down the hall. Derek just groaned, folded his arms on the counter, and let his head thump down onto his forearms.

“Aren’t sisters wonderful?” Alex said with a soft laugh.

Derek huffed, tilting his head enough to peer at Alex through one bleary eye, eyebrow raised.

Alex laughed again and patted Derek on the head. “The usual from China Palace?”

Derek grunted and closed his eye. “Wake me when the coffee’s ready.” Alex hummed agreeably.

~

Stiles isn’t usually one to get flustered in front of a class. At least, not anymore; so it’s with a grumble of displeasure that he crouches down to gather up his notes for his lecture. Not that he doesn’t have them memorized, but call them a crutch, call them a security blanket, call them whatever you want, but he likes having them ready, just in case he veers off topic, which isn’t exactly a rare occurrence, so that he can get back on track. Mostly.

But today, oh, today was not a good day for this. His beloved Jeep had gotten not one, but two flats on the way to work. In the rain. It had taken the tow truck almost forty-five minutes to get to him and tow him to the garage least likely to charge him an arm and a leg for the work. The owner of the shop, Alex, had given him a ride to campus. He’d talked about his brother’s new art show opening up at a local gallery in a couple weeks the whole way there.

Which, fine, okay, Stiles didn’t need to dominate _every_ conversation, but he kind of would have liked to get a word in edgewise. Not that his interest hadn’t been piqued. Just because he was a math genius didn’t mean he couldn’t appreciate the more creative aspects of life. He’d even considered a career as a writer, once upon a time, but the math had called to him. So he’d arrived at work an hour late, his first class canceled by default, with an invitation to a gallery opening in one hand and a distinct lack of coffee in his other hand. Also, clear across campus from the math building and the coffee shop next to it.

The coffee shop on campus had been training a new barista, who had managed to get his order completely wrong. Black coffee wasn’t easy to screw up, right? Stiles had just sucked it up and left, cup of macchiato in hand, already starting to run late for his second class, thanks to the long line and the extra delay of a new barista.

He’d tumbled into the classroom in a flurry of apologies, his messenger bag catching in the door as it closed. He was half tempted to just leave it there, but that’s where his notes lived, so he’d rescued it and flopped down in the chair at the teacher’s desk and sat for a moment while his students’ chatter died down.

“You okay, Professor?” one of his students in the front row, Danielle, asked.

Stiles sighed and opened his eyes, to find a vaguely familiar pair of green eyes watching him from the back row. He blinked for a moment then shook his head and turned to Danielle. “Long day.”

“It’s 10:30.”

“Oh my god, really?” Stiles grumbled, glancing down at his watch with a groan. “Anyone ever had one of those days where you just want to crawl back into bed and demand a do-over?” A chorus of agreement and laughter greeted him and a smile creeped its way onto his face. “Yeah, definitely been one of _those_ days.”

He stood up from the chair, took a sip of his coffee with a faint grimace, and met those eyes again, taking in the man that belonged with them: older than most of his students, short dark hair, thick eyebrows, a dark blue Henley stretched over broad shoulders and strong arms. Probably wearing jeans and boots, Stiles surmised, before turning away to the blackboard, turning his mind away from the gorgeous stranger in the back row and onto— wait, what? Gorgeous? What?

*

Two weeks later, Stiles collapsed into the seat across from Scott at their favorite diner and immediately plunked his head down onto the table with a groan.

“Tough week?” Scott asked, traces of laughter in his voice.

Stiles’s head popped back up, inspiration suddenly hitting him. “Scotty, you talk to a lot of professors to get your players out of jams right?”

“Yeah,” Scott agreed warily.

“Do you know one that’s kinda tall, dark, and intimidating?”

“You’re describing half the kinesiology department,” Scott pointed out with a laugh.

“Black hair, green eyes, kind of scarily buff.”

“Again, half the department could be described as ‘scarily buff’.”

Stiles was getting almost desperate to find out who, exactly, kept sitting in on his class, kept _watching him_ for an hour and half twice a week. “He’s gorgeous as hell with these really thick, expressive, eyebrows, and scruff that just won’t quit. Pretty sure that stuff has a grain.”

Scott was silent a moment before he offered, “Derek Hale, maybe? The girls on the field hockey team keep taking his classes and forgetting that they’re not actually artists.”

“Hale?” Stiles asked, a thread connecting in his mind. “As in Hale Auto Repair?”

“Maybe?” Scott said with a shrug. “All I know is that he teaches art, he’s a bit of a hardass about his students getting their work in on time, but he’s pretty fair if they’ve been away for games more often than usual.”

Stiles hummed thoughtfully, thinking back to Alex talking about his brother and his art opening. “You wanna—“

“No,” Scott interrupted, but he was smiling. “Whatever it is, no. Alison and I are going apartment hunting this weekend. She gave me strict instructions not to let you drag me into anything this weekend.”

Stiles huffed. “She has you so whipped, dude.” Scott’s grin turned lecherous and Stiles shuddered. “No. World of no. Don’t tell me _anything_.”

Scott was still laughing when Darla finally bustled over, looking as harried as ever, to take their order.

~

Derek. _Hated_. Art. Openings. He hated the pretentious people that came to them, the people that thought they knew everything about art because they used words like aubergine or mocha or mauve rather than just using purple, brown, or pink. Most of the people that came, he had to admit, really knew art and enjoyed it as more than just a status object. They knew how to really _look_ at a work of art and saw it as more than just something to hang in their home to show their status, that they were rich enough to be able to afford to buy an original piece of art.

As much as Derek would have loved to spend the entire opening talking to the people who truly appreciated art, he knew the people he really needed to talk to were the ones that could afford to buy his work. The people that made it possible for him to live off of only five classes a week at UCBV.

At least the music wasn’t too terrible, he thought, glancing across the room towards Paige and her quartet just in time to catch her eye and earn a flash of a smile. He smiled back, grateful, as ever, that they’d reconnected after high school and become friends.

Derek turned away to mingle some more and Alex caught his eye and tilted his head with a grin at the man standing next to him staring at one of the paintings. Derek lifted an inquiring eyebrow. Alex rolled his eyes and jerked his head, beckoning Derek over. Derek sighed and made his way towards Alex, smiling when people greeted him, but quickly offering the excuse of being summoned to avoid any potential conversations. He arrived at Alex’s side just in time to hear a familiar voice exclaim, “Wait, this is _watercolor?”_

A chuckle escaped Derek before he replied, “I get that a lot.”

“Jesus Christ!” Stiles exclaimed, jumping and flailing, one hand bumping the frame of the painting he’d been examining.

Alex laughed and steadied the painting and Stiles. “Stiles, my brother Derek. Derek, Stiles Stilinski, one of my most frequent clients.”

Stiles narrowed his eyes at Alex. “Are you besmirching my baby’s honor?”

“No, I’m besmirching your baby’s age,” Alex shot back, grinning.

“She’s a classic,” Stiles insisted, but there was a sparkle in his eyes.

“She’s a—“

“You teach at UCBV, right?” Derek stepped in, drawing Stiles’s attention before Alex could dig himself any deeper.

Stiles nodded, humming his agreement. “But you already knew that,” he said, rocking back and forth on his feet. “I’ve seen you sitting in on my lectures, the last couple weeks.”

Next to them, Alex had just taken a bite of an hors d’oeurves he’d just grabbed off a passing platter and nearly choked on it at Stiles’s words. Derek thumped him on the back until he waved him off. “I’m going to go find Laura,” he croaked before wandering away, grabbing a glass of… something from a waiter as he went.

Derek turned back to Stiles with a faint smile. “Have you seen the rest of the paintings, yet?”

Stiles shook his head. “I actually just got here. Alex accosted me almost as soon as I came in the door,” he explained with a bit of a laugh.

“Come on,” Derek bade, one hand settling at the small of Stiles’s back as he nudged him towards the next painting.

~

“A personal tour of the series by the artist himself,” Stiles observed, just a little bit awestruck. “I’m feeling pretty special, here.”

Derek just smiled and came to a stop in front of the next painting, his hand still nestled at Stiles’s back, seeming to burn a hole through his shirt. Stiles reluctantly pulled his attention away from the simple contact to the painting before him. Once more, he was in awe of Derek’s talent with watercolor, the bold colors almost seeming to vibrate off the canvas. The subject of the painting came into focus past the vibrant colors and Stiles blinked. He knew those equations. He knew that hand. Turning away, he looked around, eyes jumping from canvas to canvas before landing on the painting on the back wall, directly across from the door, that he’d been distracted from seeing by Alex.

“Oh my God,” Stiles said quietly, pulling away from Derek to approach the painting holding center stage, edging his way through the crowd that was gathered around it. He vaguely realized people were staring, that Derek was following him slowly. He stopped steps away from the painting, staring at the eyes looking back at him, almost tempted to reach out and feel if the moles on that face felt as real as the ones he looked at every day in the mirror. He reached up self-consciously to smooth down his hair. No matter what he tried, it always looked like he’d been in a high wind, strands curling every which way. He wondered if his mouth was really that pink.

He turned away from the painting, ignoring the people around him looking between him and the portrait, and met Derek’s eyes. There was embarrassment in those eyes, but defiance, too, and vulnerability. It was as if Derek was telling him, ‘this is me, this is what I’ll do, this is what I’ll paint.’ Stiles eeled through the crowd to stand before Derek, their gazes still locked. “Is this why you kept coming?”

“Partially,” Derek admitted, a hint of a blush creeping up his neck. “You just… you fascinate me.” He ducked his head and looked at Stiles through his lashes.

Stiles groaned and slumped. “That is _not_ fair, stop that, put those away. You can pay me back for making me your muse by taking me to dinner.”

A shy smile crept over Derek’s face, his eyes lighting up. “Yeah?”

Stiles laughed a little. “Yeah.”

“Come on,” Derek said, grabbing Stiles’s hand and towing him towards the door.

“But what about--?”

“I hate these things, I always end up hungry,” Derek replied, pushing open the door and stepping out into the cool night air. As Stiles watched, his shoulders dropped and his spine straightened. This, this was the man that had captured Stiles’s attention.

Stiles laughed. “Betty’s?” he suggested, laughing again when Derek practically moaned. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

~

They took separate cars to the diner. When Derek and Stiles stepped inside, one of the waitresses looked surprised. “Stiles,” she greeted as she grabbed two menus. “Isn’t it a little late for you to be here?”

Stiles grinned. “I’m saving Derek from the dreaded gallery opening.”

Darla, according to her name tag, laughed. “Clearly heroism is genetic,” she observed, gesturing for them to follow her to a corner booth. “On the house tonight, boys.”

Derek blinked up at her. “That’s—“

“Thank you, dear lady,” Stiles interrupted, beaming up at her.

She ruffled his hair, ignoring his squawk of indignation, before pulling out her order pad and a pen. “What can I start you two off with?”

“Appetizer?” Stiles asked, turning to Derek. “They make killer curly cheese fries.”

Derek nodded agreeably. “Sounds good. I’ll have coffee to drink.”

“Curly cheese fries to share and black coffee for me, too.”

Darla scribbled their order onto her pad. “I’ll bring those right out,” she assured them before bustling away.

Once she was gone, Derek looked at Stiles, one eyebrow raised. “And here I thought you barely knew the place,” he quipped.

A flush spread over Stiles’s cheekbones. “My mom worked here when I was a kid, before Dad got elected Sheriff. Plus, Mom had a surprise pregnancy when I was in high school. She’d already gone through working and raising a kid with me, which was no picnic, but Zyta’s, _God_ , sixteen, now, so she’s thinking about going back to school.”

“What’s she going to study?” Derek asked, glancing over the menu.

“She’s not sure, yet. She met my dad while they were at college and didn’t finish, so she’s probably just going to do some gen ed until she figures it out,” Stiles replied.

“So it’s just the four of you?” Derek folded the menu and set it aside, giving Stiles his full attention.

“Well, here in Beacon Hills, yeah,” Stiles answered. “My mom’s parents live in LA, Dad’s died before I was born, and various aunts, uncles, and cousins scattered all over the country. You?”

They paused, leaning back in the booth, so Darla could set down their drinks and appetizers. “You boys decided, yet?”

“I’ll have a bacon cheeseburger, no pickles, no onions, no fries,” Derek answered.

“No fries?” Stiles boggled at him for a moment, then turned to Darla. “I don’t know if I can date him,” he said dramatically.

Derek rolled his eyes. “We already have fries,” he defended, gesturing at the plate of steaming curly cheese fries even as he reached out and took one off the pile.

Stiles stared blankly for a long moment, then prompted, “And?”

Darla forestalled Derek’s comeback by patting Stiles’s hand, drawing his attention. “Don’t worry, he’s pretty enough his looks make up for it.”

“Hey!” Derek pouted while Stiles laughed.

“You got me there,” Stiles allowed once he’d calmed down. “I’ll have the turkey croissant, hold the avocado.”

“No--. Why the hell do you get it if you don’t want the avocado?” Derek argued, watching Darla beat a hasty retreat out of the corner of his eye.

“Because I want the croissant and the turkey, not the green goop,” Stiles replied.

“Green—“ Derek sputtered. “That’s it, I don’t think we can date, either.”

They glared at each other for a long moment before a snort escaped Stiles and they both started laughing. “So,” Stiles said once they’d calmed down. “Your family.”

A fond smile curled Derek’s lips as he picked a fry out of the pile. “There’s six of us, in my direct family: my parents, an older sister, a twin brother, and a little, excuse me, _younger_ sister.”

Stiles laughed softly. “Let me guess, your younger sister has threatened bodily harm if you ever call her little?”

Derek nodded, sharing a laugh. “Sounds like you have a little bit of experience with that.”

“Just a bit,” Stiles agreed. “Wouldn’t trade her for the world, though.”

“Yeah,” Derek said quietly, still smiling.

“You all sound really close,” Stiles observed before he picked a few fries from the pile and stuffed them in his mouth.

“We are,” Derek confirmed absently, watching Stiles in horrified fascination for a moment. “There’s a couple years between Laura and Alex and I. Cora was a bit of a surprise: she’s six years younger than Alex and me.”

“Wait, Cora’s your sister?” Stiles asked through his mouthful.

“Yeah,” Derek answered slowly.

Stiles swallowed before complaining, “Man, she almost beat me out for salutatorian in high school.”

Derek barked a short laugh, letting the fry he’d just picked up fall back onto the plate. “So you’re the one that ousted her from being salutatorian.”

“What are the odds, man?” Stiles murmured, shaking his head with a smile.

“Considering this is Beacon Hills?” Derek pointed out.

Stiles made a conceding face just as Darla arrived with their order. “Alrighty, one bacon burger, no pickles, no onions, no fries, for Heathen One,” she commented, setting Derek’s plate in front of him. “And one turkey croissant, no avocado for Heathen Two.”

Derek chuckled as Stiles blew Darla a kiss. “You’re a gem, Darla.”

She rolled her eyes, tucking her tray under one arm. “Tell that to someone who hasn’t known you since you were in diapers.”

“Darla!” Stiles exclaimed, scandalized, while Derek let his head fall to his arm, laughing harder than he had in ages.

“Just trying to make sure your date goes well,” Darla replied innocently before sashaying off.

“That’s it, no tip for her,” Stiles muttered good-naturedly before nudging Derek with one foot. “It’s not that funny,” he protested, even as he let his foot come to rest between Derek’s.

Derek finally sat up, still grinning, face red with laughter. “It really kinda was,” he replied.

Stiles huffed and they fell silent for long minutes as they started eating. Derek was halfway through his burger and about to ask Stiles a question when someone called, “Stiles?”

He twisted around in the booth then quickly turned back to Derek, face flaming. “Oh god. Brace yourself.”

“What?” Derek managed to get out before a middle-aged couple and a teenage girl stopped next to their table.

“I thought it was you!” the woman exclaimed, sliding into the booth next to Stiles, obviously nudging him over.

“Claudia,” the man sighed.

“What?” Claudia asked, blinking up at him with wide, innocent eyes. Derek firmly hoped Stiles never used them on him.

“Kinda on a date, here, Mom,” Stiles muttered, slinking down in his seat a little, feet nudging against Derek’s. Derek nudged back, trying to project his consolation.

She turned to Stiles for a moment then looked to Derek, her innocent look turning shrewd and assessing in a blink. “I’m sorry, are we interrupting?”

“No,” Derek assured her.

“Yes!” Stiles insisted at the same moment. He fixed Derek with a hard look.

“Yes,” Derek agreed, rolling his eyes.

Claudia hummed, satisfaction lighting her eyes. “We’re just here for pie,” she offered. “We’ll see you this weekend, yes?” she asked Stiles, glancing at Derek to include him.

“Yes?” Stiles said hesitantly.

“As long as it’s not Sunday morning,” Derek offered. “I have brunch with my brother and sisters on Sundays.”

“Oh, bring them with you!” she said.

“Claudia,” Stiles’s dad sighed, his tone one of familiar long-suffering. “We’re having spaghetti for dinner on Saturday, there’s always leftovers.”

“We’ll be there, sir,” Derek replied with a nod.

Stiles’s dad nodded and gently pulled Claudia from the booth. As they walked away, the girl turned and gave Stiles a thumbs-up, grinning. Stiles gave her the most sarcastic thumbs-up Derek had ever seen before moving his plate to one side and letting his head thump down onto the table with a groan.

Derek reached out and rubbed Stiles’s head. “Hey, it could be worse.”

“How?” Stiles asked the table.

“My family could have shown up.”

“Derek?”

Derek and Stiles stared at each other, wide-eyed.

“Jinx!”

“Fuck.”

*

_Epilogue – six months later_

Stiles sighed and rolled over, arm flopping onto the sheets. The _empty_ sheets. He groaned and scooted over to bury his head in Derek’s pillow, breathing in his boyfriend’s scent. He loved Derek, he really did, but just one weekend, he’d like to wake up curled up next to him, rather than with empty covers.

Sighing again, he climbed out of bed and padded out into the kitchen, making a beeline for the coffeepot. For a moment, Stiles wondered what Derek’s life had been like before Stiles moved in and became the one to remember to set up the coffeepot before bed so all they would need to do to get the glorious nectar going was to press a button. Probably pretty caffeine-deprived, Stiles thought with a fond smile as he pressed the start button on the coffeepot. He breathed in the mingled smell of whiteboard marker and paint that had managed to suffuse the apartment in the two weeks since they’d moved in while he waited for the coffee, looking around at the canvases and notebooks that had slowly crept out of their respective workspaces and into the living room.

Closing his eyes for a moment, he basked in the feeling of their mingled lives, of his math in Derek’s paintings; of Derek’s paintings creeping into Stiles’s math. He reached down and scratched at the Greek letter curling over his hip, picturing Derek’s matching tattoo.

The coffeepot sputtered to a stop. Stiles turned and poured two mugs full and padded towards Derek’s studio.

He paused in the doorway, smiling fondly at the sight of his boyfriend bathed in moonlight and not a small amount of paint. And nothing else. “Oh my God,” Stiles muttered to himself, rolling his eyes. He _really_ hoped the neighbors weren’t still up. He padded across the floor, calling, “Derek?” quietly as he went. He’d learned pretty quickly not to startle Derek when he was painting, especially if he was carrying hot coffee.

Derek twitched and looked over, smiling. “Hey,” he greeted, taking the offered coffee and a kiss. “Sorry if I woke you.”

Stiles pressed a kiss to Derek’s bicep and shook his head. “It’s fine. Mind if I do some work in here?”

“You never need to ask,” Derek reminded him with a smile, pressing a kiss to his temple before setting his coffee on the table next to his easel and turning back to his work.

With a brush of his fingers over Derek’s shoulder, Stiles wandered over to the much-abused couch, set his coffee cup on the floor, and pulled a notebook out from under one cushion. He settled onto the soft couch with a contented sigh and lost himself in the numbers, quietly breathing in paint and coffee and musk and markers.

End

**Author's Note:**

> for anyone curious, Stiles and Derek’s tattoos are of _phi_ : ᵠ, the Greek letter representing the golden ratio. Look it up, it’s actually pretty fascinating.


End file.
